No Place Like Home
by notempty
Summary: Gladio and Ignis were inseparable from the moment they first met. When Gladio is whisked away for nearly four years, things fall immediately to ruin between them. When he returns, it only gets worse. Who gave him the right to go off and get so damn attractive anyway?


"It's bullshit. Like it's _my_ fault. I didn't ask for this, you know? And of course _he's_ not the one that's gettin' it." Ignis has learned, over a good number of years' experience, that it's best to simply listen when Gladio is on one of his tears. This happens to be an almighty one. Not that Ignis can entirely blame him, given the circumstances. Words have a way of not reaching his friend when he finds himself in such a state, so Ignis only nods and rocks the desk chair a little beneath his weight while he listens.

"Just keep me away from him for a little bit, let him skin a couple knees, maybe he'll stop acting like such a…" Gladio seems to be grasping for a word just out of his reach. Ignis nearly winces at what his own mind supplies given the current mood. Perhaps it would be better to attempt heading this off, to make a pass at soothing the situation. They are, it seems, far beyond the point of Gladio talking his way out of this one; Ignis has already heard plenty about papers having been signed and cheques written and arrangements made. Fate sealed.

"Child?" Ignis supplies, and Gladio grunts something that sounds close to agreement. His eyes narrow, however, when Ignis points out, "he _is_ only twelve. I suppose it's to be expected." It's a dangerous position to take and Ignis knows it. He's always had a softer side for their _dear_ prince though, and he's made it a goal more than once to extend that over to Gladio. The rates of success have been… variable, to say the least. Regardless of how many fair and pleasant moments the two might have managed, an impasse had clearly been reached all the same. There's a dull thump, Gladio's head pressing harshly back against the wall. He's taken over Ignis's bed, legs outstretched and back upright, flat against the plaster. He gives the wall at his side a rap with his fist for good measure.

"Don't _you_ go takin' his side, too. I need someone in my corner here, Iggy," There's something close to desperation in there, hidden well under a few layers of frustration and a fresh coat of righteous indignation. It has Ignis sighing and shaking his head, rolling his chair from the desk and turning it properly toward Gladio.

"I'm not taking anyone's side. There aren't even sides to be taken. It's not as though Noctis begged to have you shipped off," not in so many words, at least. As Ignis recalls, it was more of a plea that he be assigned a new shield, one who didn't _hate_ him. Which Gladio, for the record, already didn't. But he couldn't pretend that Gladio's behavior preceding this whole mess had been angelic or indeed guiltless. He couldn't pretend that Noctis, a handful of years that felt quite eternal younger, had no reason for the outburst to his father. The only real shame to the tantrum had been that Clarus had also borne witness and had been so swift and harsh in his reaction to it.

"Might as well have, saying something like that…" Gladio doesn't need to be told —and so Ignis bites his tongue on the matter— that he's not acting particularly more mature with that line of grumbling. Truth be told, Ignis can't quite recall which specific row brought everything tumbling. He's not convinced Gladio, or even Noctis for that matter, can either. What he does remember, and what stands at hand, is the outcome; Gladiolus Amicitia sentenced to three-and-a-half years in the sort of boarding school that caters to the best, brightest, and highest-standing Lucis has to offer. Ignis keeps a straight face and a sympathetic ear, but his stomach is turning over on itself and he feels like he hasn't slept since the punishment was announced.

And now they're here, sharing a sort of farewell by way of Gladio airing those final grievances. Ignis isn't complaining, if only because Gladio is doing enough of that for the both of them. He can't entirely blame him for it, but there's still a strange sort of sadness to the thought that this, of all possibilities, is how they're set to be spending their final hours together. He doesn't say that though. He doesn't bring up the fact that they should be making some great memory, perhaps going out and enjoying Insomnia while it's still within Gladio's reaches. He only offers that sad, sympathetic smile and a hint of a sigh.

"You leave tomorrow, then?" Ignis lets silence settle on Gladio's last comment before he asks. He already knows the answer, but the question is something to pivot the conversation if not redirect it entirely. The ask is like a bit of a terrible confirmation. He doesn't want to have it reaffirmed, doesn't want to be reminded of the fact that, in a day's time, he will be suddenly and starkly bereft of his closest companion.

It's not to say he'll be entirely alone. Just as Ignis has grown up beside Gladio, the same is true with Noctis. Arguably, he and the young prince might— perhaps _should_ — be even closer than he is with the shield-to-be. There's something more there with Gladio, though. Their relationship stands as something beyond simple obligation. Sure, being pleasant to one another was always the path of least resistance, but it was almost instantaneous that their connection pressed beyond that. If Ignis is being perfectly honest, he thinks their friendship turned genuine long before his with Noct did. Which makes this moment and this question and this future that neither of them are terribly inclined toward that much more painful.

"First thing in the damn morning. Can't even let me sleep in," Gladio's words are little surprise. Ignis can't claim to be an absolute expert on Clarus, but he knows the man well enough to visualize the terse breakfast followed by a very long, very silent drive. His heart still aches, knowing full well— as he had already known, really— that this will, in fact, be their goodbye. He knows just the same that they're not going to say that— not outright anyway. There won't be any tearful parting or awkward confessions about _exactly_ how they're feeling, not beyond Gladio's obvious anger over the situation as a whole. Ignis doesn't exactly mourn that fact, though. He's not bad with words so much as he's _terrible_ with all the emotions behind them.

Ignis finds himself falling quiet once more. It's less a problem of finding words, more one of finding the right ones. He could let out the truth, that he's terrified by all this, that he feels like the floor is falling out from beneath him and the walls from around. He could admit that he's spent the past few nights trying to devise some absolutely genius way to avoid this inevitable fate. He could blurt it all out, the uncomfortable parts, where he's started to realize that Gladio means more to him than he has any right, that he's terrified of _that_ more than anything else. Ignis, of course, knows better than to say any of that.

"You'll keep in touch, right?" Ignis nearly cringes at himself. Desperation is ringing through the question, something that rings more as a plea than anything else. He fights back the urge though and he remains just as impassive as he can manage. His eyes, however, dart away from his friend and he turns the chair slightly, so he's not angled so directly toward him, "text me. Let me know what's going on…"

Gladio grunts, another indignant display. Something about it, in the moment between the sound and his voice following, makes Ignis's heart sink. Rightly so.

"No good on that. It's pretty much prison over there. No cells, no net," Ignis can barely look by now, but he notices Gladio sink in on himself just a touch from the corner of his eye. It's another little pang, another dark cloud cast over their last day. It makes sense, if Ignis stops to think about it. Some fancy boarding school, chock full of the progenies of politicians and celebrities and royalty proper? It's only common sense that they'd be avoiding scandal at every possible turn. Gladio's assessment feels pretty damn on the mark, though. "I think I can call. Probably get something like one a day," he grunts again and shakes his head, mutters another 'bullshit' under his breath.

"You could write?" Ignis isn't sure why he pushes the suggestion. No. That's not true. He knows exactly why he pushes it. He pushes it because he simply cannot accept, cannot _fathom_ the idea of not hearing from Gladio for four fucking years, save the occasional holiday or unlikely call. He can already imagine what the situation there will be like, a limited number of phones and minutes and Gladio with family- real, proper, blood relations- expecting with a far greater priority to hear from him. Writing, at least, that could be manageable. A few words between classes, maybe a note before bed. It's not ideal, but Ignis is still lifting his head and offering an expression that is far too hopeful.

"Yeah. Guess that's the best way," Gladio doesn't take long to consider the idea. He lets his head lull to the side, eyes locking with Ignis's in the process. There's a hell of a lot not spoken there, but Ignis could swear there's something in Gladio's eyes too, something just as pointedly unsaid as what Ignis carries himself. He swallows against the rising lump and looks away again, gives his head a brief shake to clear it. _This is ridiculous,_ he tells himself, _if you plan to say something, you won't have another shot._

Still, he doesn't take it.

* * *

The sudden departure of Gladiolus Amicitia from the royal court winds up creating quite a stir among people who find interest in such affairs. Ignis finds his gut all wrenched up anew when he sees the grainy little photo inset on one of the convenience check-out rags. God forbid any of them have a moment's peace; there he finds Gladio, hood pulled up and hat peeking out, head ducking into the back seat of what may as well be his prison bus.

Ignis could kick himself for picking the thing up and thumbing through to the advertised article. It's garbage, of course. A few puffy paragraphs describing the role of the Amicitia line dating back to antiquity, an official press release photo of Clarus and Regis side by side, and some baseless speculation as to what would cause the teen to be shuffled away so quickly and quietly in the midst of a school term. Their theories make him feel ill all over again, wild rumors of fights, questionable quotes from even more questionable— and unnamed, naturally— sources. A sign-off that, after slinging hasty and absurd allegations, extols the school for its prestige and the Amicitia line for their good sense in pursuing such a course. He comforts himself on the purchase by clipping the article to stuff into an envelope already addressed.

* * *

Tabloids aside, Ignis's life falls back into rhythm far quicker than he might have expected. He hates that. He hates that he's back to his own classes that Monday, time and life marching on as if nothing has changed. He hates that, while the world at large only took a passing glance, he feels stuck flat on his back, unable to lift himself from the repose. He still goes for his phone, an instinct to tap out an invitation or a quick grievance to Gladio. Sometimes his thumb hovers over the send button before he realizes the slip in his thinking. More often though, and more often still as time passes, he only makes it through a couple words before the realization sinks in and his phone is shoved hastily in a pocket, as if he can hide his embarrassment along with it.

Noctis, bless him, takes swift notice of the change in Ignis's demeanor. It takes some time for him to do so, but he even apologizes, shows some genuine regret for the unintended consequences of a near-tantrum those weeks before. Ignis points out that it's not his place to forgive, though he certainly appreciates the sentiment. Somehow, this doesn't draw forth any righteous rage or surly retorts. He swears he'll write a letter saying the same to Gladio, that he'll even talk to his father, if that will help. Ignis doesn't think that either particularly will, but he tells Noct to follow his conscience and gives him a smile that implies a bit of pride. And he tries, from that point, to keep his moods to himself.

That part he improves upon in time. Careful practice in the art of stoicism makes him something of a master. Ignis thinks it a good skill to have learned at some point regardless of impetus and he most certainly doesn't see it as any sort of coping mechanism, healthy or otherwise. He will, after all, serve as advisor to the king one day. A straight face can go a long way in a conference room or at a podium or under the guise of a meal that serves more accurately as a little bit of both. That makes it easier to justify, in any case, the feelings he's so expertly swallowing down.

Ignis doesn't think that Noctis picks up on any of that, regardless. While life trudges on for Ignis, leaving him floating from one distraction to another, internalizing and agonizing and working himself to the bone, it proceeds in an entirely opposite fashion for Noct. Noct, who was a sickly child, so often bed-bound and helpless; who was only now starting to come into himself. Who had only now, finally, made a real and proper friend.

Ignis decides he likes Prompto at once, though he doesn't entirely let that on. He's still meant to be responsible, a guiding figure to the young prince, and he's not entirely naive. Prompto has a particular air of mischief about him that absolutely seems to radiate from big blue eyes and warm freckled cheeks. He can tell the two of them are going to make a million different sorts of trouble from the get go, even if he can't pinpoint the specifics. The mischief is a future headache, though, reserved for when the warmth clears from Ignis's chest at the sight of the two of them together, smiling and laughing while they make an absolute tear of the citadel.

He absolutely isn't going to say a word to dissuade their friendship, because he can see himself there, he can see Gladio at his side. He can see that Noct is _happy_ , really properly happy, in a way Ignis isn't sure he can recall ever seeing on him before. And Ignis needs that, because heaven knows he _isn't._


End file.
